The Unmapped Green

The moss-choked gate remembers nothing but the weight of rain and the heavy sigh of ivy climbing its iron bars. No key remains, and the lock is rusted shut.

Inside, the light is filtered through the thickets, a green-gold syrup that pools on the floor of the old stone fountain where the water has long since been replaced by dry leaves.

There are ghosts of roses in the scent of damp earth, and the soft, rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker measuring the slow, steady decay of the oak that once stood as the garden's silent king.